


The Best Pain

by DizzilySpiraling



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cannibalism, M/M, Rating May Change, foodie!Will, the meat is people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzilySpiraling/pseuds/DizzilySpiraling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving his teaching post at the FBI academy, Will Graham opens Graham's Café and Bakery. He makes coffee, bakes bread, plays with his dogs, and generally avoids serial killers. Until one day, Hannibal Lecter steps into his cafe, and Jack Crawford brings him the case file of the Minnesota Shrike.</p>
<p>A coffee shop AU where Will refuses to put up with Jack's bullshit, the meat is people, and the pain is to die for. (There's gonna be a lot of bread based puns).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marble Rye

Getting up early is not a problem when you don’t sleep much anyway. 

It's still dark out when Will’s alarm goes off, though he never managed to fall back asleep after being jolted awake from his nightmare. They were less frequent now, though he doesn’t delude himself into thinking they’ll ever leave him completely. Spend too long looking into the heads of monsters, they eventually take root in yours. 

Still, he’s content now in the company of his ever-growing pack and knowing that he’ll never have to look at a crime scene again. 

Winston perks up his sleepy head when Will pads out into the living room, though he settles back down again after Will gives him a quick scritch on the head. 

Breakfast is a fried egg and bacon sandwich with the last of his bread; he’ll have to bring more home today. The dogs have their meal in the evening, though they all gather eagerly in the kitchen when they smell bacon frying and give him a hopeful look every time he makes eye contact. He relents and gives them each a treat from the dented steel tin on top of the fridge, the paw prints stamped into the side beginning to tarnish. 

The sun is beginning to peek over the horizon when Will says goodbye to the dogs and gets in his car, his neighbour will poke her head in around midday to let them run around outside for a bit. He doesn’t worry about them, sometimes he thinks they’re much more functional than he is. 

There’s hardly any traffic this time of day, and Will pulls into downtown Baltimore a good hour before he has to open. The alarm system beeps insistently at him until he finally manages to wrangle his key from the stubborn lock to walk across the floor and punch in the code, he really needs to get that replaced. 

He’s the only one that works here full time, opening and closing every Monday through Saturday. They’re beginning to become more popular after a feature in a local foodie blog about the eclectically decorated interior and the ‘unassumingly delicious coffee’. He’ll eventually have to give in and hire more staff if they keep growing, and he’ll be forced to make conversation and be social during the day. 

Will doesn’t have a problem interacting with his customers, but he’ll never be the type to initiate idle chatter and inquire about their personal lives. In turn, the regulars have gotten used to his mannerisms and never make attempts at small talk after they get to know him. 

He hangs his jacket on the hook in the kitchen and washes his hands thoroughly, it was time to start working.

The dough he left to proof last night has risen beautifully, and Will turns on the immaculate stainless steel oven. It looks out of place in between the cheap laminate countertops and cracking tile floor. He insisted on quality equipment when he opened, even if they were second hand and required some gentle repairs when he bought them. The rest was unimportant. He’d rather spend the money on a proper La Marzocco espresso machine than on marble countertops and trendy lighting. Afterall, his customers would be tasting his coffee, not the tacky cabinetry in the storage space. 

Only after the loaves of bread are neatly lined up in the oven does Will go to the front of the shop. He flicks on the lights and takes a quick look around to straighten a few chairs and start the pot of drip. The rich scent of coffee hits his nose as he pulls up the blinds, sun streaming in from the front window. Time to open. 

His bread has turned out beautifully, and he transfers them on a rack to cool in the back kitchen, only bringing out a few loaves for the morning crowd. The sidewalk is still quite empty when he puts the chalkboard out front: “Graham’s, Café and Bakery.” Though the term ‘bakery’ is really stretching it, since he only ever makes bread. Will remembers the feather light beignets covered in sugar from what seemed like a lifetime ago, maybe it was time he attempted pastry again. 

On the chalkboard behind the counter, Will writes the breads available that morning, and makes himself a café misto as he waits for the first customer of the day. 

They trickle in slowly, a few at first then more and more as the morning goes on. He gets quite a few office workers that stop by for their first caffeine hit of the day on their way to work. There’s a basket of fresh steaming slices of crusty French bread for people to sample while they wait for their drinks. In a time dominated by processed foods, freshly baked bread is more impressive than it ought to be. Will’s never needed artificial scents to improve the atmospherics of his shop, the freshly ground beans and smell of bread baking every morning draws in plenty of pedestrians. 

A few people order their drinks in ceramic cups, parking themselves at the tables and cushiony chairs with a fried egg sandwich or some buttered toast. After the morning crowd has died down a little, Will brings out the cooling bread and displays the in baskets on the wall. Dishes from the morning are cleared away, and the few customers that remain don’t look like they need anything else for the moment.

He has a little time before he needs to start prepping for lunch, and Will is glad for the break. He idly considers hiring additional help again as he sits down in one of the armchairs with his laptop. It may be a good idea to have someone else at the front of the house, allowing him more time in the kitchen. Will is in the middle of looking up recipes for beignets when the front door opens, a sudden gust of wind making him look up from the screen. 

Will quickly closed the lid of his laptop and walked behind the counter, pulling on the apron he took off earlier to avoid trekking flour all over the place.

“What can I get you?”

The man looked surprised and then bemused by Will’s quick shuffle from the comfortable seat to his place behind the counter, though he was too polite to say anything. Actually, he looked like the type to have immaculate manners everywhere he goes, and Graham’s is definitely not the type of establishment a man like this visits frequently, or ever. If the perfectly slicked hair and the expensive looking woolen coat wasn’t enough of a clue, the exotic European accent that followed would alert even the least observant person that this was a different class of man altogether.

“I found myself on a walk after an appointment was canceled last minute, the smell of fresh pumpernickel bread drew me in.” The man’s voice was rich, like the dark silk of the tie Will could see peeking out from underneath his coat. 

“That’s quite the nose you’ve got,” Will put out 6 different types of bread that morning, and there was the smell of coffee that permanently permeated the room. “Just pulled it out of the oven a few hours ago,” 

He pulled down a loaf and began to slice, the crisp crust crunching as his knife made its way through. Putting a few slices in the sample basket, he pushed it across the counter and set aside the loaf to use during the lunch rush. 

“Help yourself, there’s some marble rye in there as well. Can I get you a coffee?” Will gestured to the small board hung upon the wall, listing prices and options. His fare was simple, no flavoured syrups or strange blended drinks. And no decaf, because it tastes like hot piss water. 

“A cortado, please.” The man removed his coat and folded it neatly in his arms, revealing a truly astonishing plaid suit. On anyone else, it would’ve looked utterly ridiculous. He sat himself on a bar stool, placed around the counter for when there’s no other seating available, though hardly anyone ever sat there. Will’s not exactly known for making conversation with his customers. 

Will sank easily into the process of grinding beans, pressing grounds, and steaming milk. A cortado is served in a short clear glass, which was set neatly in front of the customer. Will didn’t offend the man by offering sugar, though he did push across a small dish of butter for the bread. 

“Coffee and bread is an unusual combination,” The man remarked, taking a careful sip of his drink. 

“Yeah, well. I’m not very good at making croissants.” Will muttered, swiping the black credit card the man handed over. He didn’t notice the man raising an eyebrow at his sudden change in accent at the word ‘croissant’. A habit he picked up from living and working in New Orleans 

“Forgive me, it was not meant to be a complaint. An unusual combination, but a delightful one. The rye has a much better mouthfeel than the one at my usual bakery.” Of course the man had a ‘usual bakery’.

“Thanks. Do you need anything else? I’m going to duck back into the kitchen to start prepping for lunch,” Will gestured awkwardly, not wanting to be rude.

“Please, don’t let me keep you from your work. I believe I’ll sample some more bread while I finish my coffee,” The man smiled graciously. There was something beneath the polite mannerisms and carefully constructed appearance. What kind of a monster are you? Will shook himself out of it before his mind ran off in that direction. He had stepped away from criminal profiling for a reason. This was just another customer, and Will didn’t have the time - nor the inclination- to look. 

Will had the radio turned on to an oldies rock station, occasionally mouthing along with the lyrics, getting into a rhythm with his little assembly section. Slices of bread laid down, butter and all the fixin’s, top with the other slice and wrapped in parchment. Fresh produce from the farmer’s market as evenly sliced as he could manage, bacon from a local butcher fried off in the cast iron pan. He’s never pretended his food was anything fancy, but he always made sure to buy good ingredients. 

He emerged from the kitchen with the basket of sandwiches only to find the polite, accented customer from before with his suit jacket off and the sleeves of his pressed white shirt rolled up, expertly pulling espresso while chatting to a lady that seemed completely charmed by him.

Embarrassed he hadn’t even hear the front door, Will arranged the sandwiches in the display case and stood around a bit awkwardly while the new customer was being taken care of by his other customer. 

“Thanks, you could’ve just come and gotten me from the kitchen.” Will stood around a bit awkwardly while the transaction finished. Although from what Will’s seen, the man looked much more capable behind the coffee machine than he was. 

“It was no trouble at all. It’s not often that I have a chance at a custom La Marzocco.” The man smoothly slid out from behind the counter and straightened out his sleeves. 

“You looked like you know your way behind an espresso machine. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a part time job paying minimum wage?”Will chuckled, just standing around now and waiting for the lunch crowd. His customer had already cleaned up after himself, cup in the dish area and the place where he was sitting wiped clean of crumbs. 

“I consider myself a gourmand, and hold a particular fondness for coffee.” The man was putting on his coat, and Will was just a little sorry to see him go. If nothing else, the man looked good with his sleeves rolled up. Will never knew he had a thing for strong forearms until now.  
“Unfortunately, I have a full-time job that occupies most of my time. Though I appreciate the job offer. It also means I can’t stay longer to discuss our mutual passion for handcrafted espresso.” The man’s lips quirked up slightly, Will was a little annoyed at being charmed so easily. “I will, however, take a loaf of the marble rye.” 

Will took one down from the basket and slid it in a paper bag stamped with the café’s name, waving his customer off when the same matte black credit card was offered. “It’s a thank you for covering for me. I appreciate it.”

“Thank you.” The man offered a hand. “Dr.Hannibal Lecter. My office is a few blocks north of your shop.”

“Will Graham. Enjoy the bread.” He offered a small smile, though his attention was drawn to the line that had started forming. “Maybe I’ll see you around. I make focaccia on Fridays.”

“With such an offer, I will certainly make an attempt to stop by. A good day to you, Mr.Graham.” Dr.Hannibal Lecter left the shop as elegantly as he came, making no attempt to blend in amongst the homey furniture and reclaimed wooden floors. 

Will didn’t have time to think about anything other than steaming milk and making sure not to burn sandwiches on the panini press for the next while, finally collapsing into his armchair after the lunch rush. He resolved to hire help next week, at least part time to help him in the mornings. 

Distracted from his recipe research, Will googled the eccentric doctor with the very nice forearms. With a name like Hannibal Lecter, it wasn’t exactly difficult to find the right person. 

A psychiatrist.

Of course. Just his fucking luck. 

~

It would seem, however, that his streak of bad luck was to continue. Will looks up to hand a latte over the counter to a lady who clearly thinks she’s too good for his café to see Jack Crawford standing in line behind her. 

_The pendulum swings. Theresa Marlow’s body lays bloody on the floor. The bullet leaves her paralyzed. She feels every ounce of pain without being able to do anything about it. It gets truly horrifying for Mrs.Harlow. This is my design._

“Mr. Graham.”

Will considers Jack Crawford over the rim of his glasses, wanting to snort at the polite expression on his face.

“I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford. I lead the Behavioral Science Unit.”

“We’ve met.” 

The curt response is not enough to deter a man like Jack Crawford. Will wonders if anything will.

“Yes, we had a disagreement about the museum when we opened it.”

“I disagreed with what you named it.”

“The Evil Minds Research Museum?” 

Will did snort then. He thought the name was ridiculous then, and his opinion on that subject will never change. “It’s a little hammy, Jack.”

“You’ve hitched your horse to being a small business owner. Seems a bit strange, I understand it’s not easy for you to be social.” Jack laid his coat over one of the bar stools. He was staying, Will tried not to glare, if only not to scare off the customers that might come in.

“I bake bread and make coffee. It’s not social.”

Jack leans his elbows on the counter and pushes himself in Will’s face so he’s forced to make eye contact, but only briefly.

“Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

“My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths.” There was never any escape from those that wanted to psychoanalyze him, put a label on him. Wind him up and watch him go until he short-circuited himself.

“But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths.” Jack leaned forward eagerly, Will braced his hands on the counter and pushed himself back.

“I can empathize with anybody. Coffee drinkers, housewives, workaholics that need three shots of espresso to start their day. Less to do with personality disorders than an active imagination.”

“Can I borrow your imagination?” Jack didn’t contain his enthusiasm then, he smiled and leaned in, sure of his pitch now.  
Will imagined briefly, himself standing in a crime scene and letting the pendulum swing once more. Sinking into the minds of monster

“No.” He answered decisively. Looking over Jack’s shoulder to take an order from a customer that just came in. Will didn’t look up at Jack again until he was steaming the milk. “I run a business, Jack. I can’t just be closing up shop and running off to do work for you whenever you see fit.”

“Eight girls from eight different Minnesota campuses abducted in the last eight months. I’d like you to get closer to this.” 

“You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown. They do the same thing I do.” Will was almost reaching his Jack Crawford tolerance quota for the day.

“That’s not really true, is it?” Jack kept pressing, his torso against the other side of the counter as he tried to get as close to Will as the counter allowed. “You have a very specific way of thinking.”

“I know there’s been a lot of discussion about the way I think. My answer’s still no.” A customer hesitated in the middle of the shop, keeping their distance from the large man that was blocking access to the counter.

“We need you. Lives are at risk!” Jack’s tone had lost all the politeness from when he first came in. 

“You don’t need me, Jack. You have a whole department full of qualified people. People who chose to work in criminal profiling.” Will glared and stood his ground. “The best part about owning a private business is that I can ask you to leave.”

“Can I help whoever’s next?” Will called out to the rest of the shop, fully intent on ignoring Jack.

“Will you just take a look?” Jack held up a file, clearly not deterred. He had lowered his voice and softened his tone, though Will could see placating techniques when he saw it.

“Take no for an answer, Jack.” Will didn’t even look in his direction as he took payment and then addressed the next customer. “I have customers. Leave or I call the police for harassment.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and took his coat, though he slapped the file on the counter before he stormed out of the shop. The front door slammed loudly as he left, startling his customers. Will closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before putting on the most pleasant expression he could to help his other customers. 

Will flipped the file open after everyone in line had been helped, then closed it again barely a minute after. The news and tasteless reporters like Freddie Lounds called him the Minnesota Shrike. Last he heard there were only seven girls missing, the abduction of another one must’ve driven Jack to seek him out. He took the file into the kitchen and turned on the stove, holding a corner of the file to the burner until it caught. 

As the flames slowly travelled up the sides of the manilla folder, Will dropped into the sink and let it all turn into ash. 

Jack Crawford can go fuck himself.


	2. Focaccia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will spend more time together, Will doesn't know what to make of the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the bread puns in comments last chapter, they were amazing. I laughed like a lunatic. Please continue sending in your food related puns.

By Thursday of that week, Will has hired a college student to work some mornings and finds himself with a surprising amount of free time. Marie has the kind of bubbly personality that Will usually can't stand to be around for an extended period of time, but she's good with customers and can sense when Will doesn’t want to make idle chitchat. He still joins her at the front of house during rushes, but he spends a lot more time now in the kitchen testing recipes and doing prep. 

He leaves the shop in Marie’s hands for an hour while he goes to the specialty deli, just browsing the various stalls to see what's fresh. Will has just picked up a container of olives for tomorrow when he spots a very familiar figure over by the cheese counter. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is in yet another plaid suit, in complete contrast to the plastic shopping basket in his hand. Will could escape now, turn around and go back to his shop and continue being the unsociable baker who stays in the kitchen all day. 

He walks up to the man instead, coming to stand an arm’s length away and pretends to consider the cheeses. 

“For a doctor, you sure have a lot of free time in the middle of the day.” Will keeps his eye on a block of pepper jack, though from his peripheral he can see that Dr. Lecter has turned towards him. 

“The benefit of having my own practice is control over my schedule. Have you left your shop unattended?”

“I have a new employee; she’s better at customer service.” 

“I was very satisfied with the service offered when I visited your shop.” Dr. Lecter’s mouth quirks up. 

Will thinks it's stupidly attractive.

“You have a fridge in your office to keep cheese?”

“I intended on picking up some materials for lunch, to go with the last of your rye.” 

“Why don’t you bring the cheese, and I’ll make you a sandwich with fresh bread?” Will doesn’t know where this assertiveness is coming from, perhaps it's leftover bravado from turning Jack down. Maybe he just has a thing for European accents and plaid suits. 

“Do many of your customers bring their own materials?” Dr. Lecter has fine lines around his eyes when he smiles, and Will’s gaze lingers perhaps a bit too long on the curve of his mouth. 

“I made baguettes this morning,” Will offers instead, eyes drifting to the display again. 

“Then please, lead the way.” Dr. Lecter holds the door open for him, walking a polite distance away and seeming to have an infinite number of neutral topics for the walk back to Will's shop. Perhaps this is what it’s like to have social skills, though Will has the distinct feeling that Dr. Lecter keeps the topics neutral to drive the conversation away from himself.

Marie looks up when they enter, raising an eyebrow at the sharply dressed man her boss has brought back.”I thought you went to get _olives_?”

“They were giving away psychiatrists at the deli. Marie, this is Dr. Lecter,” Will replies wryly, stepping behind the counter to put away his purchases.

“Hannibal, please. You must be the new apprentice.” Hannibal offers a hand.

Marie gives Will an approving look when Hannibal drops a kiss on the back of her hand in one smooth motion. 

“Employee,” Will corrects, washing his hands before pulling down a fresh baguette.

“One is never just an employee.” Handing over the cheese he just bought, Hannibal takes a seat at the counter to watch Will work. 

“Boss, do we have a bring-your-own-cheese discount?” Marie asks cheekily, ringing Hannibal in for a drink. 

“Why don’t you take your break now?” Will suggests, starting to wonder if hiring someone else was a good decision. 

Marie laughs and ducks back into the kitchen, taking the hint. 

Will splits the piece of baguette down the middle, smearing some homemade garlic butter on one side. He carefully lays the artisanal gruyere down, with a bed of watercress and thin slices of the roast beef he cooked off last night. 

“Onion?” Will doesn’t know if Hannibal has more patients to see, although he wouldn’t put it past the man to keep a toothbrush at his office. 

“Yes. Your roast beef smells divine. Am I correct in assuming it was made in house?” Hannibal compliments, having already helped himself to the sample basket.

“I can’t stand the deli counter stuff. You’re one of those people that can actually taste if the beef is grass fed, aren’t you?” Will raises an eyebrow. 

“I have a discerning palate. Food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. I believe in the importance of quality ingredients and careful preparation,” Hannibal says evenly. 

Will agrees, of course, but he doesn’t want to sound like some simpering twink who agrees with everything a handsome man says. 

The grilled sandwich he slices on the diagonal and plates with a few homemade pickles, though Will can’t imagine Hannibal as the type of man to munch on a gherkin. 

“Cortado again?” Will asks, handing the sandwich over. 

“Just a glass of water, for now.” As Hannibal bites into the sandwich, Will turns and looks away. It would be creepy to just stare at the man while he eats, so Will pretends to be wiping down the counter and generally not focusing on the crunching of the baguette and the soft sound of Hannibal’s chewing. 

“Hey, can I get a half-caf caramel macchiato with unpasteurized milk?” The arrival of a new customer draws Will’s attention away from imagining Hannibal’s mouth wrapped around the bread. The young man is dressed in an artfully distressed denim jacket with the collar popped up, leaning against the counter with one elbow, and is too busy typing away on his phone to look up as he speaks. 

“It’s not on the menu.” Will pours water into a glass with some sliced cucumbers for Hannibal, and points to the chalkboards behind him.

“That’s why it’s called ordering _off menu_.” The man raises his head only long enough to roll his eyes. “Hey, what’s your wi-fi?” 

“What do you think a menu _is_?” 

“Do you even know what a macchiato is?”

“Do _you_?” Will pulls out a white ceramic espresso cup from underneath the counter and places it on the table. “I’m not talented enough to fit bacteria-ridden milk, caramel syrup, and half a shot of piss that calls itself coffee in here.”

“There’s a Starbucks two blocks away.” Marie appears from the kitchen, stepping in front of Will before he can start his lecture on how modern consumer culture is killing the art of coffee. “Take a right at the stoplight, and it’s just past the drug store. Have a nice day!” 

Her bright smile stays just until the customer leaves the store, then she turns and sighs dramatically at Will. “Boss, you can’t just yell at every hipster that comes in here. You’re not exactly encouraging repeat business.” 

“Perhaps clients of that sort should be politely turned away,” Hannibal chimes in, having finished half of his sandwich. 

Will can easily picture him at the head of a dark wooden dining table, eating off bone china plates with linen napkins. The Hannibal in front of him is perched on a wooden stool, buttons of his blazer undone and wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. It's immensely amusing to push such a man out of his comfort zone. Even now, Will can see the carefully constructed layers of Hannibal’s control. 

“The doneness on the roast beef is fantastic.”

“It’s a good cut of meat, grass-fed, free range.” Will ducks his head slightly at the compliment.

“It’s important the animal has the freedom to roam. The flavour is better if they are kept happy until the last possible moment.” Hannibal smiles charmingly. “That is why I employ an ethical butcher.”

Will huffs at that, not surprised at all that Hannibal visits perhaps the most high-end butchers in town, or maybe even in the state. “I don’t know if the cow was happy before he died.”

“Meat takes on an unpleasant bitterness if the animal is in too much distress before slaughter.” Hannibal eats neatly, small bites carefully chewed, savoured. 

Marie catches Will staring at the column of Hannibal’s throat when he swallows, and shoots him a big grin. He rolls his eyes at her and sends her to the back for more milk. 

“When do you have to get back to the office?”

“Have I overstayed my welcome already, Will?” It's the first time Hannibal's used his name, though Will noticed a slight pause before his name rolled off in Hannibal’s accent, as if Hannibal himself was uncertain as to how well the informality would be received.

“No, I just don’t want you to be late getting back to work while you’re talking to me about cow feed.”

“I appreciate your concern. The conversation about butchering is more stimulating than sessions with a number of my patients.” Hannibal practically smirks as he says that, lines appearing around his eyes. 

“That’s hardly charitable of you, Dr. Lecter.” Will hadn’t even notice that Marie had returned to take care of other customers. It must be lunch time already; there's far more foot traffic on the sidewalk as people leave their work places to seek nourishment. 

“Please, don’t let me keep you from your work. I require nothing else for the moment.”

Will is kept busy with other customers for a while, even with Marie’s help. In some way, the routine of the lunch rush every day soothes him. A good hour of concentration on the same physical tasks keeps his mind blissfully blank. And now that Marie works the cash, Will doesn’t have to interact with nearly as many customers. He does glance over at where Hannibal sits a few times, and each time the man makes eye contact and smiles. It's a bit unnerving, to be honest. Will hasn’t purposely made this much eye contact since he was at the bank applying for a loan.

When Will looks up again, the stool Hannibal had occupied is empty and the counter in front of him already wiped down. Marie grins smugly and points to a cream colored piece of thick cardstock placed neatly inside the tip jar. 

“He left his card. And a tip. You should call him.”

“And what, make a psychiatric appointment?” Will does take the card out of the jar, his thumb sliding carefully over the paper. The off-white color is probably called something pretentious like bone, or eggshell. Will raises it to the light, surprised he can actually feel the _weight_ of the paper. The finish is matte, the raised lettering adding texture, the font reminding him of something one would see in an antique print. 

Simple. Classic. Almost understated, if one doesn’t look too closely. 

Will turns the card over, half expecting to see a number written in fountain pen, but it's surprisingly blank. 

Not _too_ forward then. Hannibal had read him well enough to see that he would not react well to assertive advances. He offered Will a point of contact, and will no doubt be reading heavily into whether Will actually calls his office number, and how soon. 

After a few aborted attempts at dating while he was teaching at the Academy, Will had quickly given up on the whole venture. It was hard to maintain a relationship when he had crime scene photos laying around all the time and woke up from nightmares more often than not. 

Or the card could just be a subtle suggestion that he needs psychiatric help. 

Either way, Will slides the card into his wallet, refusing to think about it further while he's at work. 

~

When Hannibal Lecter walks into his shop the very next morning, Will begins to think it isn’t purely concern for his mental health.

“Do you _ever_ work?” Will grins. 

“Occasionally. Though I am here on a coffee break, I do believe that is something people do.” Hannibal has taken over his usual stool at the counter. Today he's dressed in a truly shocking dark brown plaid suit, complete with burnt orange tie peeking from the collar. Will has never seen so much plaid and a paisley together. “You are without your apprentice today?”

“She had a midterm. Do you want something to eat?” Will presses the button on his grinder, a fresh wave of freshly ground beans hitting his nose. 

“The red onion and parmesan focaccia looks fantastic. I will also have a selection of the others to go. I have a flight later tonight, and airplane food can barely be called such.” Will laughs at the thought of Hannibal eating half congealed airline ‘spaghetti bolognese’. He’s only ever traveled when he was consulting with the FBI, and food on the road was one of the things he hated most about that gig. 

“You going on vacation?” Will places Hannibal’s drink on the counter and turns to pack up some of the olive, dried fig and goat cheese focaccia he made with yesterday's purchase. He double bags it with extra napkins, since the herb oil tends to leave residue on one’s fingers. 

“Unfortunately, no. I have been asked by the FBI to consult on a criminal investigation.” Hannibal sips his coffee casually as he answers, while Will almost drops the basket in his hands. 

Psychiatrist. Consultant for the FBI. Hannibal is quickly racking up more things in the ‘cons’ column than in the ‘pros’. 

“Thought you were a psychiatrist.” Will catches himself and places the basket back on the shelf. If Hannibal notes his reaction, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Occasionally I do consulting work, criminal profiling. This will be the first time I go ‘into the field’, as they say.” 

“Can’t imagine you getting your hands dirty.” Will directs the conversation to something lighter. He simultaneously wants to ask Hannibal everything and also to never talk about the BAU again. 

“The FBI have been under increasing pressure to catch this killer. They are hoping I will have more insights if I am closer to the scene of the crime.” Hannibal looks much too calm for what he's about to be dragged into. Will wants to tell Hannibal to just stay home, do anything other than be dragged around by Jack Crawford. That’s how it starts. At first, profiling consultations. Then, when a particularly vicious killer emerges- and they always do- they drag you into the field to ‘get closer to the scene’. 

Will refused the field work requests at first, but they started becoming more and more insistent. He went into the field all of once, and woke up the very first night in a drab hotel room dry heaving into the toilet because he was dreaming of brutally murdering a family over and over again. As soon as that case was over, Will resigned his teaching post from the Academy, knowing the bureau would never leave him to his teaching podium. 

“Minnesota?” Will guesses. There hasn’t been another killer in the news that would make the bureau this desperate. 

“Officially, I am not allowed to say anything regarding an ongoing investigation.” The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks up, confirming Will’s suspicions. 

“Well. I wouldn’t want you to get fired.” Will clears away Hannibal’s now empty plate and hands over the bag to go. “If you’ve got a toaster, they warm up pretty nicely within two or three days."

“Thank you. I will miss your bread while I am away.” Hannibal lets out a breath almost wistfully as he carefully lays the paper bag in the crook of his arm. 

“Come back soon then, before some baker from Minnesota tempts you to stay.” Will smiles briefly, though he means it about coming back soon. Stay too long with the BAU, and you might never get out. Though, the whole thing comes out a little more flirtatious than he intended. 

“I can assure you, I have not been seeing another baker since we met.” Hannibal’s lips quirk up into an attractive smile, and the suggestive turn of phrase makes Will flush and break eye contact. 

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?” Will reminds him dryly, unsure of how he feels about Hannibal going along with his flirting. It's one thing to be open to dating a psychiatrist, and another thing altogether to be considering a consultant for the BAU. Will doesn’t want any contact with the cases, the killers, or Jack Crawford, however tangentially. 

Hannibal lifts his arm to glance at an expensive looking watch, and frowns slightly when he realizes the time. “It seems I must leave you. Hopefully this trip will not take too long. Might I pre-emptively invite you to dine at my table when I return?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t see another baker while you’re away.” A date, then. Will hadn’t read the signals wrong. 

“You have my word. Dinner, when I come back.” 

~

A few days later, the news headlines all read something along the lines of “MINNESOTA SHRIKE GUNNED DOWN BY FBI”. Will skims the paper when he has a spare moment, hoping to catch a brief mention of Hannibal, but instead the articles all contain far too much of Jack Crawford’s ‘heroic actions’ and ‘incredible bravery’. Scoffing when he reads that a daughter had survived, Will can’t help but think that Jack’s team should’ve thought of the daughter angle when the first few girls went missing.   
Still, the killer has been caught, the news has already hit the headlines. Jack will be leaving him alone for at least a little while. Maybe Hannibal is on his way back right this moment. 

Flipping the paper closed, Will decides that's all he needs to know about the case of the Minnesota Shrike. 

After all, Will has to figure out what he's going to wear on his date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That fussy customer is inspired by a person I had the misfortune to sit near last week. 
> 
> Leave a comment about what (who) you think Will and Hannibal should eat on their date! This chapter is beta-ed by the lovely eeyore9990. Also, feel free to talk to me on the toombles about your Hannigram headcanons and foodporn.


	3. Risotto and Beignets

Will is doing his closing up sweep of the shop when his phone rings; Hannibal’s back from Minnesota. 

“How was your first foray into the exciting world of chasing serial killers?” 

“Dull,” Hannibal answers, though he seems to have put Will on speakerphone. Driving, perhaps. “I find I much prefer consulting from afar.”

“No more field work for you then?” Will is incredibly relieved Hannibal didn’t suddenly discover a love of the Jack Crawford way of life while he was away. 

“Profiling from the comfort of my office is much more to my tastes.”

Will laughs at the emphasis on ‘taste’. “Had enough of the cop coffee then, have you?”

“Your espresso was in my dreams, I can assure you,” Hannibal remarks lightly, as if that's something normal people say. 

“Swing by the shop, I’ll make you a double. I just got a new shipment from the roasters yesterday,” Will offers, surprising even himself with how eager he is to see Hannibal. 

“Unfortunately, I am in dire need of a shower. However, I actually called to ask if you are free for dinner tonight. I realize it is last minute, but-”

“Yes,” Will interrupts, charmed by Hannibal’s impeccable manners. Lord knows he doesn’t have a packed social calendar. His most exciting dinner plans consist of cooking a steak on the grill and a cold beer on the porch. “What should I bring?”

“Just yourself, nothing else is necessary.” Hannibal chuckles softly at his eagerness. “Everything should be ready by seven, but please feel free to stop by earlier.”

“FInd yourself in need of a sous-chef, Dr.Lecter?” 

“Finding myself in desire of your company.” Hannibal’s blatantness catches him off guard for a moment. The silence between them lingers for a moment before Will blinks and gathers himself.

“I’ll come over after I finish up here,” Will says quietly, tightening his grip on the broom. 

“I’m looking forward to it. Goodbye, Will.”

~

Hannibal’s directions lead him to a brownstone house in a neighbourhood of perfectly trimmed hedges and manicured lawns. Will carefully removes the covered stainless steel bowl he'd buckled into the backseat and walks up to the door. He picks up the brass knocker and taps on the door, bowl cradled under his arm. 

Awash in the warm light from the entryway, Hannibal appears as impeccably put together as always. The only concession he has made for hosting dinner are the neatly rolled up sleeves and white apron tied about his waist. 

“Will. Please, come in.” Hannibal steps aside for Will, closing the door behind them. “May I take your coat?”

The bowl is temporarily deposited on the entryway table. Unlike its counterpart in Will’s house, it’s free from assorted coins, receipts, and keys. Will unbuttons his coat as he turns, letting his arms fall to the side as Hannibal peels it off of him. He briefly feels the warmth of Hannibal’s body against his back before it’s cold again. The bright lights of the foyer glare at them, reminding Will that it’s perhaps not the right place to be reading into things. 

Hannibal guides him to a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine, but the delicious smell emanating the stovetop distracts Will. He gravitates towards it, taking in a deep whiff off the earthy mushrooms and rich butter. 

“I’ve never made risotto before.” He leans his hip against the counter and accepts a glass of wine that Hannibal hands him. 

“A last minute concoction. I did only arrive a few hours ago.” Hannibal’s mouth turns up in a slight smirk as he reaches for the bowl Will brought with him. “Is this to be served with dinner?”

“Dessert, actually.” It’s covered with plastic wrap and a gingham tea towel, looking thoroughly out of place in the stone and steel of Hannibal’s kitchen. “Just needs to go in a warm place. Maybe the oven, if it’s not being used.”

“How about the proofing drawer?” Hannibal is definitely smug as he pulls open one of the bottom cabinets, placing the bowl inside. 

“Of course you have a proofing drawer.” Will takes a gulp of his wine and tries not to roll his eyes. 

“I have not had much cause to use it, but perhaps it will tempt you into my kitchen more often.” Hannibal looks utterly shameless as he bustles about the kitchen.

“Forward, Dr.Lecter.” Will puts his wine glass down and gives the risotto a stir, noticing that it's coming together quite nicely. “This looks delicious already,”

“Patience, dear Will.” Hannibal comes to stand beside him and adds a ladle of broth. 

They stand side by side while the risotto finishes cooking, Hannibal letting him take over and talking him through the technique of making a creamy risotto that still maintains the texture of the rice. 

“I’ve never seen mushrooms like these at the market,” Will notes, lifting the spoon so Hannibal can add in the parmesan. 

“They’re grown locally by a colleague. Organic, of course.” Hannibal turns off the hob and dishes up a generous portion for both of them, wiping off the plates and carrying them both to the dining room. 

Will follows with their wine glasses, though he pauses in the doorway when he spots the daunting dining room table. “Have you ever eaten mac and cheese in front of the TV?”

“Food is one of life’s great pleasures, it should be enjoyed without distractions.” Luckily, Hannibal doesn’t insist on anyone sitting at the head of the table, and sets their places across from each other. 

“You know what’s also one of life’s great treasures? John Wayne movies,” Will can’t help but tease, picking up the polished fork. He takes a bite of the risotto and closes his eyes in pleasure. “I don’t ever remember mushrooms being this good.” 

“Yes, I was quite surprised as well when I discovered mushrooms were being cultivated in Baltimore.” Hannibal eats delicately, pausing every few bites to take a dainty sip of wine. 

They talk of Hannibal’s time in Minnesota over dinner, an obviously sterilised version to make polite conversation. Will tells Hannibal about the interesting customers in his shop for the past few days, and about making food for his dogs.

 _”Seven?”_ Hannibal’s eyebrow rises elegantly, and Will laughs at his carefully contained shock.

“Yes, seven. They shed like crazy and eat me out of house and home.” Will ducks his head and wipes a hand down his pants, surprised his palm doesn’t come away covered with dog hair.

“Your house must be very well guarded.”

Will immediately snorts at the thought of Winston being any sort of guard dog. “They’re pretty easy to bribe. A bit of turkey neck and a scratch on the head, they’d roll over for just about anybody.”

“You’re fond of them,” Hannibal concludes.

“Yes. I’m used to being covered in dog hair; they’ll do quite a number on your suits though.” Will laughs at the thought of Hannibal in one of his plaid suits playing with his dogs. 

“Luckily, I have a very capable dry cleaner.” Hannibal offers a smile, which Will returns. If seven dogs haven’t scared him off, there's hope for Hannibal after all.

~

They return to the kitchen after emptying their plates and wine glasses, Hannibal eagerly peering into the bowl Will unwraps. 

“I need some frying oil warmed up. Also bench flour, and powdered sugar if you have it. “ Will puts Hannibal to work, washing his hands thoroughly at the sink. 

“Doughnuts?” Hannibal asks, setting a Marseille Blue Le Creuset on the stovetop. 

“Beignets. Hopefully.” Will’s had some success during his recipe testing, though he hasn’t had any other guinea pigs besides Marie. 

The dough has risen beautifully, and Will tips it out onto the counter to gently roll flat. “I need a mug, or a glass or-” Will looks up to see Hannibal holding up a steel ring. “Or a pastry cutter. Of course there’s a pastry cutter.”

“Shall I make us some coffee for dessert? Perhaps some dessert wine?” Hannibal offers instead.

“Coffee. I have to drive home soon,” Will decides, cutting out perfect round circles of risen dough. 

He works in tandem with Hannibal, sliding the dough into the hot oil while the scent of rich coffee fills the kitchen. The beignets puff up beautifully in the pot, and Will is too busy making sure they don’t burn to notice Hannibal behind him. Two capable hands and a white apron suddenly wrap around his waist, and Will flushes while he waits for Hannibal to finish tying the apron behind his back.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, staring into the pot.

“Oil splatters are rather difficult to wash out.” Hannibal steps away again, moving to serve the coffee.

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Will blames the sudden heat in his cheeks on the hot stove he's working over. He fishes the perfectly golden beignets onto a plate and liberally sprinkles the pile with powdered sugar. “There’s a run down cafe I used to go to as a kid, their beignets were always greasy and tasted almost entirely of yeast and sugar. They were drizzled with sweetened condensed milk, and my hands would be all sticky after I wolfed down the entire plate.”

Hannibal sets two places at the kitchen counter for them, his mouth turning up in a smile at Will’s story. “We all have treats from our childhoods that are tied to pleasant memories. Scent is one of the most powerful triggers of memory.”

“It’s hard to imagine you as a kid with sticky fingers.” Will laughs, doctoring his coffee with a touch of milk. 

“I had quite the sweet tooth when I studied in Paris.” Hannibal, of course, uses a knife and fork to dig into his beignet. Will uses his fingers, dropping his on the plate when it proves too hot to touch. “Luckily I had the metabolism of a young man. If I indulged as frequently now as I did then, it would have a much different effect on my waistline.”

“These are probably not helping that front,” Will bites into his after blowing on it, powdered sugar getting all over his mouth and fingers. 

“What is life without a few indulgences?” Hannibal somehow manages to eat without getting sugar everywhere. “These are excellent, Will. Are you planning to add more sweet fare to your current menu?”

“I don’t know if I’d have time to do all the prep. Maybe after I hire someone else for front of house.” Will wouldn’t mind spending most of the day baking in the kitchen, though he’ll have to look at the numbers to see if it will be worth it to hire someone else.The business part of running his own business is the actual worst.

“You’re welcome use my kitchen as a testing facility anytime.” 

“You’ll never get rid of me now that I know you’ve got a proofing drawer,” Will grins, wiping his fingers off on a neatly folded linen napkin. He gulps down the rest of his coffee when he spots the time on the oven clock. It's a long drive back to Wolf Trap, and his dogs have been trapped inside since his neighbour let them out at lunch. 

“I hope that’s not the only attraction in this house.” Hannibal meets his eyes in a meaningful look, suddenly making Will quite aware of their close proximity. Their knees practically touch underneath the countertop, elbows resting close together on top. Hannibal reaches forward with his own napkin, gently dabbing at the corners of Will’s mouth, presumably to clean up the mess of sugar that's there. 

Taking the hint, Will closes the distance between them and meets Hannibal for a kiss. Once. Twice. It’s chaste and sugary, until Hannibal slides off his stool and uses his arms to bracket Will against the marble. Will’s hands find their way between Hannibal’s jacket and waistcoat, fingertips against soft silk, warm from Hannibal’s body. Hannibal tastes of coffee and cream, and he kisses like he’s trying to taste every corner of Will. They break apart when Will finds himself short of breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I have to go,” Will mutters reluctantly, lips against Hannibal’s throat. “The dogs.” 

“Perhaps I can come cook in your kitchen next time.” The thought of his dogs following Hannibal everywhere is almost enough to tempt Will into saying yes.

Will chuckles and pulls away, sliding his hands out of Hannibal’s jacket. “No way. Yours is much better.”

“Have you just been using me for my appliances, Will?” Hannibal looks amused as he puts some distance between them. 

“You’ve caught me.” Will grabs his bowl and lets Hannibal direct him back to the entryway, and turns obligingly when Hannibal holds his coat out. “I can put on my own jacket,”

“Indulge me.” Hannibal even straightens the collar for him, though he lets Will do up his own buttons. “I’ll try to stop by soon. Get home safe, Will.”

“I’m making povitica tomorrow.” He steps forward to press their lips together before ducking out of the door. 

~

Hannibal doesn’t stop by the next day, despite the temptation of walnut swirl bread. He does, however, send an honest to god _note_ to the shop. 

“Where do _I_ find a man like that?” Marie teases as she hands Will the creamy cardstock. 

“You wait until you’re twenty years older.” Will snatches the note out of her hands and ducks into the kitchen to read it. 

_Dear Will. I am visiting a patient in the hospital and will not have time to stop by your establishment. Dinner tomorrow? I can also prepare something for your dogs._

Will leaves him a voicemail confirming dinner, and reiterating the fact that he has no intention of unleashing his pack on Hannibal’s mausoleum of a house. He comes back to the front to find Jack Crawford sitting at a table, cup of coffee steaming beside a thick case file.

“Baltimore is a long drive for a cup of coffee.” Will sits warily, his body turned sideways in his seat.

“I was in the area.” Consulting Hannibal, probably. Will doesn’t need another reason to be annoyed by Jack Crawford, though they come easy these days. “Your coffee comes highly recommended.”

“As long as that’s the only thing you’re here for.” Will can’t imagine many people at the BSU stop by his cafe very often. 

“I wanted your opinion,” Jack held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Not about an active case. We recovered the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike. She’s saying very little. I just want to know how we can help her, she’s lived through some very traumatic events for a girl her age.” 

In Bureau talk, Jack wants to make sure he’s wrung every scrap of information from the girl, and then put her through rounds of interrogation to make sure she isn’t an accessory. Will’s read the media’s account of what happened the day of Hobbs’ arrest. Given everything that girl's’ been through, no matter what she did or didn’t do, she doesn’t deserve Jack Crawford’s brand of ‘concern’.

“I take in stray _dogs_ , Jack. Don’t you have social workers and psychiatrists to deal with orphans?” He wouldn’t be surprised if the Hobbs girl is the ‘patient’ Hannibal had to go visit in the hospital. 

“She doesn’t want to talk to social workers and FBI psychiatrists. All she wants to do is go home to Minnesota.” Jack’s grip is tight on the coffee mug, though he's trying his best to keep a calm facade. “I just want to know how to get through to her.” 

“Let her go home, Jack. You want to help her? Stop bombarding her with psychiatrists.” 

Jack slides the folder towards Will, until the edges of the paper bump against his fingers.”I can’t close the case until I’m sure she’s not involved. It’s in her best interest to talk to us.” 

Will glares at the file for a few moments before picking it up, giving the first page a cursory overview, his gaze landing on a photo of Abigail Hobbs. How very Mall of America. They should’ve caught onto the daughter angle after the first few abductions, though Will refrains from pointing that out to Jack Crawford’s face. 

_The pendulum swings._

_It’s a normal morning at the breakfast table. Like any other day, except everything is about to be different. Mom is bustling around the kitchen. Dad is, as always, ‘running late for work’. I don’t know where he works now. All I know is he changed jobs suddenly._

_The phone rings. I’m the closest. I answer._

_A man. Strange accent. British? No. European, probably. It’s hard to tell. It’s not for me, anyway. It’s for Dad, from his old job. Dad looks tense. He doesn’t say much._

_Everything changes._

_Mom is on the floor. Blood everywhere. I don’t know where to look. People are yelling, screaming. They came for Dad. But he wouldn’t do anything to me. He loves me. He promised._

_There’s blood._

_This wasn’t supposed to happen._

_He loves me. He promised._

_Everything changes._

_The pendulum swings._

Will blinks a few times, staring at one cracked floorboard before turning his eyes back to Jack Crawford, who looks incredibly eager. His now cold coffee sits untouched on the table, but he’s leaned forward as much as he can, resting his weight on his elbows. 

“I don’t know how to help you, Agent Crawford,” Will says slowly, closing the file and putting it back on the table. “She’s a teenage girl who witnessed the death of both parents. The image of a man she probably idolized growing up completely destroyed by every adult she encounters and every news source. You’re keeping her in a strange facility, surrounded by adults who get to decide her entire future without her consent.” He gets worked up while he talks, hand waving through the air.

“Jack. Just stop with the shrinks and agents for a while.” Abigail Hobbs has been taught well by her father, but there’s no guarantee she’ll hold up to repeated questioning and psychoanalysis. And a bloodhound like Jack Crawford will not go easy on her just because she’s newly orphaned. “She probably wants to go home because she wants everything to go back to normal. Her normal. Look at these pictures. They live in an old but well maintained house, the family are clearly very close, pictures everywhere. She brings lunch to her father at a work site. Abigail Hobbs wants to go back to the morning where her parents were making breakfast together, before federal agents burst through her front door.”

“I need to know if she’s an accomplice, Will. If Garrett Jacob Hobbs was using his own daughter as bait, I can’t let her go just because I feel sorry for her.” Jack practically shouts the last bit, startling Marie at the counter. Will waves her down and tells her to get some more paper cups and napkins from the storage area in the basement. Jack seems to remember his surroundings, and sits further back in his seat as a concession to being in public. 

“At this point, Abigail Hobbs might confess to treason just to stop you from badgering her every hour of the day.” Will is firm on this. Abigail Hobbs needs a few days to herself to get into the right headspace, sort out her story, decide on the character she’s going to play in the fallout of the Minnesota Shrike case. “She’s supposed to be in the hospital, isn’t she? Let her be a patient for the weekend, get someone to make her some chicken soup.”

“And that’s your advice, chicken soup?” Jack looks skeptical. 

“I don’t work for the FBI anymore, Jack. The advice of a baker, in the case of a recently orphaned girl who’s in the hospital, is chicken soup.” Will stands up before Jack can start arguing the accomplice point again, making it clear he’s said all he has to say on the subject. 

“Maybe some bread, then. To go with the soup?” Jack smiles and nods, standing up as well. 

“Now that I can help you with.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. We're going there. Will is.... not dark but definitely not good. He doesn't want to help Jack Crawford, that's for damn sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright folks, we're pretty much going to be canon divergent/adjacent from now on. Not all the cases from the show are going to be touched upon, since I do want to focus on Hannibal and Will, although some of the show's characters are too good to exclude.
> 
> This fic is beta'd by the lovely [eeyore9990](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com). And I'm on the [toombles](http://dizzilytwirling.tumblr.com) as well if anyone wants to discuss the show, this fic, or the fact that the dogs didn't get nearly enough screen time. Leave a comment with your best bread pun!


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